


In The Catbird Seat

by LoveThemFiercely



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: And a Hug, Author Is An Expert In Nothing, BAMF Lando Calrissian, Be Sure to Responsibly Re-Home Your Tookas, Because of course he is, Brandy - Freeform, But He's a Hot Mess, Cathartic Shaving, Chewie Is Grieving, CloudPilot - Freeform, Draw Your Own Conclusion, Geno Namit Apparently Got a Little Trigger-Happy, He Needs a Minder, Hutts, I Tried, Kaydel Connix is a Good Friend, Kylo Ren and Rey Disappeared At The Same Time, Kylo Ren is Missing, Lando Calrissian is Excellent at Self-Care, M/M, Millennium Falcon's Galley Actually Seeing Some Use, Nerf Tenderloin, No Official Diagnoses Are Being Made Here, No One's Ever Really Gone, Not as weird as it sounds, Past Character Deaths (Mentioned), Poe Dameron Is A Mess, Poe Dameron is Terrible at Self-Care, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rey is Missing, Sometimes You Should Consider the Color of Your Cape, That's Fun To Consider, The Care and Feeding of Pilots May Present More of A Challenge, The Mechanics of Attracting Wildlife, The Millennium Falcon Has A Galley, Tooka Cats, Unca Wanwo, Weirdly Named Felines, Yes It's A WIP Sorry, caf, capes, mention of past torture, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-01-06 16:04:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18391742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveThemFiercely/pseuds/LoveThemFiercely
Summary: Captain Poe Dameron, exhausted, slightly disgraced, and very angry pilot, is being sent on a mission to find information on the last known whereabouts of First Order deserter Kylo Ren.  He's apprehensive about the "consultant" with whom he's being saddled until he realizes it's Lando freaking Calrissian; then he's not really sure HOW to feel.  There will be Hutts, potentially terrible plans, Tooka cats, shenanigans, earthshaking knowledge drops, caf, brandy, pilot-wrangling, danger, daring, and all drawn and centered around the heart of the Millennium Falcon.Here's what I've got so far.





	1. To a Briefing Room

**Author's Note:**

> So this was meant to be a one-shot, but time got away from me as it generally does and the story decided it had more than one chapter, so please please pardon my WIP, the summary is complete and the rest of the text is in progress. I'd blame the Martian Death Virus, but honestly, this is not really out of character for me, eh-heh, sorry.
> 
> Research in canon-verse is mostly mine, and any mistakes are definitely mine. This is NOT a Kylo Ren or Rey story, it is a CloudPilot story (that's what I'm calling it) for rarepairs; but it is Kylo Ren adjacent and Rey-mentioning, so if the possibility of those characters is not your gig, just hit the back button.
> 
> Story for March Pillowfort/Tumblr Star Wars Rarepairs Challenge, pairing Poe Dameron and Lando Calrissian, prompt: Tooka Cat

“Captain Dameron.”  Poe felt like there wasn’t much point to using his rank any more; people of a higher rank than even his reduced one were thin on the ground these days.  The Resistance itself felt thin, like the hulls of their ships, like the teeth and fingernails and sheer kriffing stubbornness they were using to hold on to themselves.  But routine and respect, he supposed, were a way of keeping themselves from growing even thinner, until they were transparent, shifting with air currents like the salt of Crait.

 

“Lieutenant?”  Poe scrubbed a hand over his face. Kaydel deserved his full attention.  She’d been a steady presence and support for him since she’d surprised him by joining his...mutiny, that *was* the word.  He carefully steered himself away from that one. It didn’t really matter. Practically no one involved was around to reprimand him by this point, no matter how much he wished they were.  

 

He gave her what he hoped was one of his best smiles, despite the distinct lack of caf in his bloodstream.  They’d even tried a little downtime R&R on the side, not that downtime was really a thing any more. She was fun; they’d been fun, but he didn’t have the time to give anyone the attention they deserved, and it turned out they made better friends. Not that this necessarily precluded further recreation.  Or exploration. Or exploration of recreation. Poe had to open his eyes to look at her again. He’d been wandering.

 

By the look of her, she wasn’t fooled by the smile.  “Sir. Commander D’Acy sent me to collect you for an intelligence briefing.”  She inspected him with irritating acuity. “Let’s divert past the canteen, so you’ve got a chance of remaining awake and on your feet, shall we?”  She tucked her arm through his, which was probably some sort of fraternization violation, and wow, he really _was_ tired. Whose brain was this and what had it done with Poe Dameron’s?  Fraternization was practically his middle name. He gave her a friendly leer, just for kicks, so she could see he was totally fine.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lieutenant.  I am clearly in a fully upright operating position.” That probably would have been more believable if he hadn’t tangled his feet together on the way down the corridor.  It was just as well Kaydel had hold of that arm. He gave an idle thought to how long it had actually been since he’d slept. That, of course, would require that he know what day it was.  The days had started to run together after they’d lost Leia, and by the time Rey’s disappearance had been closely followed by trickled-in reports that Kylo Ren had vanished from the flaming wreck of the First Order, it didn’t seem to matter much what the days were called.  It was all about the news a day might bring; and the news wasn’t often good.

 

This news was...mixed.  Between the caf and the company, Poe managed to focus on what the Commander had to say, her normally friendly face serious as she relayed the information that had fallen into their hands.  “It’s our first lead on Ren’s location since his apparent defection from the First Order.” Poe shivered a little, oh, that reflex hadn’t gone away yet, how lovely. He wondered how long his desire to find Kylo Ren and reduce him to his component atoms would be accompanied by the echoes of his own screams and the sensation of phantom fingers in his brain.  Kaydel gave his hand a squeeze under the table as she took notes with the other, tapping away on her datapad. It helped.

 

If Commander D’Acy noticed, she was tactful, or indifferent, enough not to mention any of it.  “The gentleman in question unfortunately didn’t survive long enough to give us the possible location himself, assuming he had it in the first place,”  she glared at Captain Namit, who was sitting across the table with a hangdog expression on his pretty face; he _was_ awfully quick on the trigger for somebody so obedient, not that Poe could talk, oh, the Commander was still talking, “but he did tell us that the Hutts were the ones who had the full story, if anyone did.”  It took Poe a minute to realize that the next words were addressed to him, despite their starting with his damn name; he was embarrassed to discover he’d been staring at poor Geno. Not enough caf. Or sleep.  Or something.

 

“Captain Dameron.  We know that you’ve had some contact with the Hutts over the years.  You’ll be taking the Falcon. Best they know exactly the kind of negotiation they should be expecting.”  He’d wondered why Rey hadn’t taken her, before kicking himself for the thought. Just about the most recognizable ship in the galaxy, of course Rey hadn’t taken her; he still wasn’t sure how he felt about her taking his droid when she left to...find herself, or whatever it was she was doing. Well, he’d always been his own droid, really.

 

Poe missed BB-8 with a sharp sting, but he knew there was no one better at looking after lost pilots; just the way, he thought, that R2-D2 must have looked after the last pilot of that ship.  Oh, that was another thought with jagged edges. So many heroes lost. And yup, D’Acy was still talking. Poe’s preference for dodging dangerous asteroid fields over attending meetings like this could not possibly be properly expressed.

 

The Commander frowned at him, as though surprised he didn’t have anything to say. He was  a little surprised himself. Let her wonder what he was thinking. There were any number of ways to keep people on their toes. It wasn’t that he didn’t have the energy.  “Toward that end, we’ve brought in a...specialist of a sort to go along with you as your co-pilot.” No, they were going to, what, saddle him with some kind of long-range comms tech, linguist, or negotiations expert who’d never been out of a conference room?  And where had they even found any of those? People were a valuable and rare commodity these days.

 

“We can’t afford to allocate many of our resources to this, as you know,” like he needed the reminder that he was a little more expendable than the rest of them, “but we’ve managed to find you someone intimately familiar with both your contacts and your transportation.”  Why was she smiling? Smug was not an expression he’d previously seen on Commander D’Acy. She murmured something to the adjutant at her right, sending him scurrying out the door.

 

And really?  Cryptic was the last thing he needed right now.  Cryptic was what had gotten him into trouble with command in the first place.  “Need to know”, and of course he never needed to know, he was only the one they would actually _send_ , he’d only been the one commanding the bombers and fighters and why would he need to…This time the pressure of Kaydel’s hand was close to painful before he noticed it and came back to the room.  He gave her a small, grateful squeeze in return before turning at the sound of the re-opening door.

 

“Hello, everyone.  It’s good to see you all.  Reminds me of old times.”

 

Force.  Lando Kriffing Calrissian. _General_ Lando Kriffing Calrissian.  Poe could feel his posture straightening.  He couldn’t have stopped the involuntary self-inspection of his uniform if he’d tried.   He wasn’t sure why; by all accounts, Calrissian hadn’t exactly been a stickler for, well, _anything_ , at any point, but heroes just did that to him.  Reportedly troublesome heroes were even better. And from the cape across his shoulders to the spark in his eyes, nothing about Lando Calrissian suggested that had changed.  He also had the advantage of not having been at Poe’s childhood home often enough to be honorary family, which meant Poe was free to think whatever he...wow, he really was tired, his brain had completely slipped its leash.  

 

General Calrissian crossed the room in a loose-limbed, easy, rolling gait that belied his age and rank and took the seat at Commander D’Acy’s left with a nod.  “Larma.” His eyes flickered from seat to seat around the conference table, intent and lazy all at once, the gaze of the veteran cardsharp Poe knew him to be. Those assessing eyes lingered on him for a few moments while Poe studiously inspected his own fingernails (having reclaimed his hand from Kaydel).  

 

Even in the space of a few heartbeats, and without looking up at him in return, it felt like he was being measured.  Poe had the sneaking suspicion that Calrissian could have easily rattled off how long it had been since Poe had slept, eaten, or shaved; and that if he’d had a mind, could have put a blaster bolt through his mother’s ring without scuffing the metal or looking at him again.  It was disconcerting. He was the one that was supposed to be fast on the throttle and ready for anything.

 

He sat through the rest of the briefing.  It went like they always did; a thousand words when three would have done just as well, and none of them ever had the information he needed.  Why were they bothering to discuss destination? They were going to talk to Hutts, so they’d be flying to Nal Hutta or Nar Shaddaa; not much to choose from between them, except that the moon wasn’t technically a swamp and boasted slightly fewer actual Hutts per square foot.  Poe tossed that observation into the sea of words and watched it sink, sending ripples through the room.

 

It wasn’t a helpful contribution to this already not very useful briefing, and he knew it.  Commander D’Acy’s mouth got that pinched look it seemed to wear more frequently in his presence; Captain Namit looked slightly shocked, but then he’d always been better at following orders and general decorum than Poe (yeah, not a tricky target).  Intriguingly, if Poe had been a betting man (who was he kidding, he was), he’d’ve sworn General Calrissian was smothering a laugh in the hand he thoughtfully drew across his mustache. At least that’s what the shift in the crows’ feet around his eyes seemed to say.

 

Then there were the negotiations.  General Calrissian seemed to think he could manipulate the Hutt currently in charge of their information gathering operations.   “Don’t you worry, Commander D’Acy, I’ve got his number. We’ll be sitting in the catbird seat.” He smiled, as though that was a sentence that made any sense whatsoever (what did that even mean?), but Poe wasn’t off his game enough to miss the hand stroking the hem of his current (spectacularly purple and resplendently satin-lined) cape. “We’ll have...Ren’s location before you know it.” The pause had been nearly imperceptible.  His sabacc-face was everything legends had implied, but Lando Calrissian wasn’t entirely as confident as he appeared. Poe could tell; he wasn’t always either, these days.

 

“And I understand, Commander Dameron,”  a slightly embarrassed lull in conversation ensued before the adjutant murmured a correction in General Calrissian’s ear, “my apologies, Captain Dameron,” he smoothly continued, “that you’ve had your own dealings with the Hutt families.”  Just what he needed, his demotion at the forefront of everyone’s minds. It hadn’t been the first time. He seemed to get promoted and demoted in almost equal measure; back and forth, like dancing. Apparently wanting to trust the person giving you your orders before you decided whether to obey them was too much to ask.  Go figure.

 

Answering, what a great idea.  “Dealings” was an understatement.  “If you mean the time Black Squadron broke Grakkus out of prison, sir, I don’t know how useful that’s going to be in negotiations.  I’m not sure he’s got the concept of gratitude, and I’m entirely certain he’s not fond of my face.” To be fair, he knew perfectly well that Lando Calrissian had pissed off his share of Hutts.  He could hardly have grown up in the company of heroes and missed that story. “But yes, I’ve exchanged information with Hutts before, to both our benefit.” Or so he’d thought. Benefit had turned out to be a slippery word.

 

That information had led him eventually to Lor San Tekka, which had led them to Luke Skywalker; both of them now dead.  And the events surrounding it had led to his last encounter with Terex, which is when he’d lost L’ulo. There seemed to be a theme.  He shoved that thought back into its box and grinned at the General. “Tracking down information is definitely something I can do, though.”  That sounded a little more enthusiastic, at least he hoped so. He supposed it didn’t really matter. It wasn’t as though they had anybody else to send.

 

“Something _we_ can do, I hope.” Oh, right.  Calrissian’s smile was wide and dazzling and possibly of questionable sincerity, and Poe knew he resembled that remark.  He lost a few minutes trying to puzzle out exactly how much of a civilian General Calrissian might have become in the decades since he’d last been an active participant in this game, and how much of a liability that was likely to be to both their safety.  It was just his recent run of luck to be sent on (wait for it) _another_ intelligence-gathering mission with a distinct possibility that it would lead to the death of one of his increasingly scarce childhood heroes.  He just...Poe didn’t know if he could be responsible for that. Again. But maybe this mission would give him the chance to exact some sort of payment; not that anything could make up for what they’d lost.

 

The air in the room seemed questionable in both quantity and quality, on the heels of that thought.  There was a further exchange of information, some of which might actually have been relevant, all of which Poe missed except the words “Kylo Ren”, which kept falling into the room and landing in his ears like something dropped from orbit.  He didn’t quite surface from the roiling, queasy mix of anger, guilt and cold fear until Kaydel, Force be with her, rather than attempting to recapture either of his hands, which were both still on top of the table, actually patted him on the thigh.  Bold move for the middle of a conference room, but considerably less fun than it sounded when accompanied by a furrowed brow that suggested it wasn’t her first try at getting his attention. Why couldn’t he get the kinds of assignments where his responsibility was limited to his hands on the stick and the trigger, and the endgame was making enemies disappear?  Enough allies had disappeared as it was.

 

The meeting had concluded, and Poe’s lungs felt like he’d been running, but nobody else seemed to have noticed.  That wasn’t entirely accurate. Calrissian was leaning back in his seat, arms crossed, speculatively eyeing Poe from across the table.  Kaydel hissed in his ear. “I sent all the information to your datapad and directly to the Falcon so you can pretend you actually heard most of that.  It’s a long enough way to Hutt territory that I’m hoping you can get some sleep and screw your head back on straight. _We_ need you, but,” she sighed;  Kaydel really did know how to communicate -- subtle, direct, encrypted, or personal -- “I wish you’d take a minute to think about what _you_ need.”  She was a better friend than he deserved.

 

\-------

 

He’d been given enough time to shower, change, and pack; Poe guessed that was generous under the circumstances, not that he’d done more than one of those.  He stopped by Finn and Rose’s quarters instead, so he could say his goodbyes to them both, to his friends. Seeing the two of them together made him feel warm.  Rey disappearing without a word had hit Finn hard; but Rose was looking after him all the while Finn thought he was looking after her, and that was really how things ought to work.  He lounged against the door of their room. “Nice jacket.”

 

Finn’s head whipped around and he grinned, lighting up his face.  No one in the galaxy would ever doubt the sincerity of one of his smiles.  “Poe! Hey, there you are.” He looked down at the battered brown jacket he was still wearing, always wearing.  “Yeah, thanks; it’s a little worse for wear, but then…” he shrugged “...so are the contents.” Rose giggled, a bright sound in a dim place; and when Finn joined her it was pretty near perfect.  

 

Poe grinned back at him.  “Aren’t we all? Just wanted to say hi, and bye, I’m off again, you know…”  He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the sky. “...important business as usual.”

 

Finn frowned at him.  “Already? We’ve all barely had time to catch our breath.  What are they...Never mind. I guess I’ll find out, if I’ve got the clearance for it.”  He rose from his seat on the bed to cross the room, catching Poe in a tight hug. “You take care of yourself, okay?”  

 

Poe’s eyes felt as prickly as his poorly shaven face.  “You too, Finn.”

 

Finn’s eyes went soft, landing on Rose and the indulgent smile she was shining in both their directions.  “Oh, I will. I haven’t been given a lot of choice in the matter. And hey, if you hear anything…” There was the hint of worry that hadn’t left his face since they’d discovered Rey’s empty bunk.

 

Poe nodded, just the once.  “I’ll let you know. Sod the chain of command.”  That would hardly be the first time. He waved at Rose over Finn’s shoulder.  “Keep my place in the hangar warm for me, will you, and the place running like it should?  I’ll feel better if what they questionably call ships have had your eyes and hands on them before I get in the cockpit of one again.”  She laughed, and nodded at the flick of his eyes to Finn and the unspoken request to look after him, even though he already knew she had and would.

 

Poe heaved his duffel bag back over his shoulder and grinned back at both of them.  “Don’t worry about me; they’re giving me the Falcon for this one. We’ll take good care of each other.”  He saw relief, envy, concern, fondness, and the sudden recollection of why the Falcon was free for Poe to fly cross both their faces in quick and startlingly similar succession.  “Gotta run,” he said, to avoid addressing any of that, “I’ll be back before you know it.” He did not quite flee the room. He was just in a hurry.

 

It was still a rush just to see her; scarred and dinged and beautiful, boarding ramp open and waiting.  It wasn’t just talk, Poe really could fly anything, as a stolen Tie Fighter could attest; but it was a thing of beauty and pure unadulterated joy when he could have his hands on a ship like this.  The Millennium Falcon was a legend, a patchwork of impossible adaptations and modifications that by all rights shouldn’t fly at all, but somehow coalesced into a ship that could produce miracles. And her _history_.  Maybe he wasn’t as close as he thought to being out of heroes.  He laid a hand on one of the ramp’s supports and leaned his head against her hull.  “Hey there, gorgeous. You are a sight for sore eyes.” It might have just been the lack of sleep, but Poe could have sworn he felt a thrum in her waiting engines that felt like an answer.

 

…

 

Lando stopped short as he turned the corner and she filled his vision, his breath catching at the sight.  “There you are,” he murmured to himself. He knew his things were already on board. He wondered whether she did.  He’d never been sure what it was like to be a ship, how much of her still remained to be aware. To be fair, he hadn’t had as much opportunity as he’d have liked to explore that notion, not when that old pirate kept putting her through her paces and had eventually lost her altogether.  And then lost himself. A new and yet already familiar pang curled its way through his chest at the thought.

 

Han had always trusted more than was good for him, more than by any rights he should have done, no matter how many times he’d been betrayed.  Lando ought to know. He’d been one of that number. And he was trying to understand, to forgive, the way Han had forgiven him. People had reasons for the things they did, he knew that better than most.  First they needed to find him. Then Lando could try to understand how the shy little boy with the shock of dark hair, peering at him from behind his father’s leg, had ended up where he did. He could try to understand where they’d failed him, failed Ben.  Not that that was anything new. People seemed to fail the Solos and Skywalkers almost as frequently as they failed themselves. Which was about the same frequency with which they tended to save everyone else. There was no middle ground with them.

 

It took him an embarrassing few minutes to come back to the present and notice the man leaning against the hull of his ship.  Dameron. In the stories he’d heard, Lando had recognized a little of himself, back in the day. Brilliant (what, he was supposed to be modest?).  Unpredictable. Adaptable. A pilot half in love with the ship under his hands whenever he flew, by all reports. And handsome as hell. But none of those things had been at the forefront in that conference room.  Well, that wasn’t entirely true; he was easy on the eyes, even looking like somebody had stampeded a herd of bantha over him, then backed up and done it again.

 

He looked...angry.  Exhausted. Lando had seen a familiar spike of pain that spoke of the twist your guts made when you knew that someone else had paid a high cost for your actions.  And afraid...Dameron was afraid. Fantastic. He was about to negotiate with some of the hardest bastards in the galaxy, and they’d given him a co-pilot wound so tight he was likely to give you whiplash when he uncoiled.  Well, it wasn’t the first time he’d managed a high-strung bunch of idiots. He smiled, thinking about how excitable Luke had been. You’d have never known the capacity for strength and compassion possessed by that whiny little punk.

 

First things first, though.  It was time to go say hello to his girl.

 

…

 

Poe settled himself into the pilot’s seat.  He’d dropped his duffel in one of the bunks that _didn’t_ already contain a ridiculous amount of luggage.  Did you really need a trunk to go talk to a bunch of giant, grouchy slugs?  He shook his head. Not his business. His business was to get better acquainted with this fine lady.  His hands were already caressing the consoles, exploring the controls, running over her filthy, dinged, scarred, _beautiful_ panels.  He could hear snaps and pops from the relays to his right, smell ozone and something like burnt toast from his left, and feel a particular and slightly alarming rattle in the decking under his feet, and she was perfect.  He knew, without a doubt in his mind, that if he needed to dodge asteroids, Hutts, exploding stars, or the ending of the kriffing galaxy itself, she’d be there to do everything and anything he needed, bucking and sparking all the way.  It was a very comforting feeling. He laid his head on the console in front of him. Just for a minute.

 

“...Dameron.”  Poe’s head jerked upright.  Kest. How long had he been...he was fine to fly.  He was always fine to fly. He carefully did not look at Lando Calrissian, hoping with deep desperation that he did not have creases and imprints from the consoles pressed into his face.  

 

“Ready, sir?  It’ll just take me a second to input the coordinates for Nar Shaddaa.”  He was putting actions to the words as he spoke, fingers flying over the nav system.  This ship had the most responsive navigation Poe had ever had the pleasure of encountering; it was like she already knew where they were going.  “There’re a few stops between here and there. Best not to go straight there from our base and leave a trail that can be easily followed.” He’d be cursed if he were going to get anybody else killed.  To that end, he was plotting a ludicrously circuitous route, with lots of not entirely necessary stops.

 

“Of course.  Go ahead and set course; and then get out of here and get yourself some sleep, ace.”  That...what? Poe was the pilot. You didn’t send the pilot to a bunk while you were flying to wherever it was you were going.  Pilots could sleep later. Whenever later turned out to be.

 

“With all due respect, sir, somebody’s got to get us there.  That’s my job.” He tried not to sound as irritated as he felt at having to explain this.  The statement was only slightly ruined by the yawn he hadn’t a chance of stopping.

 

Lando Calrissian threw back his head and laughed.  It was a rich, rolling sound, booming and gravelly and under other circumstances, contagious.  “Dameron, I was piloting this ship when Luke Skywalker still had two hands and no idea what to do with them.  I was at those controls before Chewbacca went and got himself a long-term pet. I flew her through an exploding Death Star without losing more than a sensor dish, and got a ration of Bantha dung for it when I got back.  I think, all things considered, I can manage simple transportation.” He placed a hand atop a nearby panel, his face full of possessive affection. “Besides, she’s mine. She’s always been mine as much as I’m hers, no matter what anyone else”, a cloud drifted over his face, “had to say on the subject.”

 

Poe’s mouth snapped shut mid-yawn.  He’d forgotten. How could he have forgotten?  Under everything else Lando Calrissian had been over the years (Baron Administrator, loyal friend, not-so-loyal friend, once-again-loyal friend running to the rescue dressed as a bounty hunter, diplomat, wedding guest, dirty fighter, gambler, entrepreneur, the list was endless), he had always, first and foremost, been a _pilot_.  And Poe had just insulted his skills.  He felt his face burn, heat climbing up the side of his jaw.  “Um. Sorry, sir. But...I’m fine.”

 

An eyebrow rose.  “Yes, the sight of you drooling on the console would tend to support that conclusion.  You’re maybe under the impression I haven’t heard that line before?” His face turned rueful.  “That I haven’t _said_ that line before?”  He crossed the cockpit and held out a hand.  “Look, I expect this to be more or less routine.”  Poe’s thoughts on that must have been clear. “Yeah, I know, plans, encounter with the enemy, and the Hutts are no one’s friends.  Either way, you’ll be absolutely no good to me at all in your present state. Whereas, if you go grab a fistful of bunk and actually _sleep_ , then either this’ll still be routine, or I’ll have a chance to see if that reputation of yours is all it’s cracked up to be.  Meanwhile, the Falcon and I…” His expression was nothing short of dreamy. “We’re gonna talk.”

 

His reputation?  What, exactly, about him had reached this man’s ears?  That was...gratifying, and potentially also terrifying.  Was he Poe Dameron, Flying Ace, or Poe Dameron, demoted pilot who might be responsible, charitably, for the loss of half the Resistance?  Maybe if he gave in now, he’d have more traction with how this went later. Poe ignored the hand, dragged himself out of the pilot’s seat, sketched something that no one in their right mind would mistake for a salute, and ambled toward the bunks.   He couldn’t resist a parting shot. “I’ll try not to stumble over your extensive luggage on my way to bed. Sir.” His smile was tired and unrepentant.

 

And Baron Administrator General Lando Kriffing Calrissian was in no way ruffled.  “I also have a reputation to uphold, Dameron,” he said with a wink. Calrissian had _winked_ at him.  Poe was pretty sure his mouth had stayed open several seconds longer than was acceptable or dignified before he realized he had no answer to that and stumbled off to a bunk.  He expected to stare at the ceiling, like he’d been doing at the base.

 

But the hum of the Falcon’s engines was like a lullaby, sizzles and cracks and all, and Lando Calrissian’s voice was like a purr, heard dimly through the conduits and the walls.  He had a moment to wonder how in the hell he was hearing that voice at all, here on the other side of the ship, before he was rocked to sleep by the sound and the feel of being onboard her; even the air tasted right in here.   They were flying and he was safe and no one was depending on him; just now he seemed to be depending on someone else. He should probably fix that, later, when there were thoughts again.

 

…

 

“Hey there, old girl.”  He spoke softly to her, as he hadn’t when she’d been beside him instead of all around.  It was an odd thing to do, he knew. She was demonstrably less fragile as a freighter than she had been as a cranky droid on metal legs; but she’d been _her_ ; gloriously, obviously, and sometimes ear-shatteringly her, and it was her _presence_ that felt fragile, not her physical shell.  Lando wished he’d had some sign, in all those years, that she was really still here; that he’d had the time to save what was best of her instead of just what was needed.  But that reassurance had never been given to him.

 

As a ship, she was just as brash and frustrating and cobbled-together as she’d been as his partner.  All around him, Lando could hear the sounds of tiny strangenesses he’d have to troubleshoot and re-route before they became complete disasters; but he could feel her solidity, the awareness that she would not fail him when she was needed.  It was much more that than the walls and wires and controls that made him feel like he’d come home. Never once, no matter how much of her was left, had she let them down when something had to be done.

 

So he talked to her about everything.  There was no one else, really, that would understand the shocking, painful losses that had slashed across his world.  “Do you know he’s gone? For good, I know; no matter how much he respected the Force and those who touched it, Han could never get near it himself.  He was too busy tasting this world to want to look at anything beyond it. And every time he attached himself to someone new, it was like another anchor to the world.  Chewie and me, we already loved him. And then there was Luke. And Leia.” He couldn’t say the next part out loud, not even to her. By the time...Ben came along, nobody who thought themselves a free agent had ever been so thoroughly and willingly chained.   It turned out, for people he loved, there really was nothing he wouldn’t do.

 

The losses hadn’t all happened at once; but they had, really, to him, hearing news from across the stars.  “Luke was next, pulling the world’s best prank to save what mattered. Kid got his sense of humor back from wherever it wandered off to when he lost it.  He might be around, though. It would definitely suit him to mess with us. You let me know if he decides to talk to you first, all right, darling? Hey, I’ll call you all the pet names I want until you tell me yourself to stop.  If I find my boot-laces tied together with the Force somehow, I’ll know who to blame.” He stopped to glare around the cockpit as though Luke might be snickering in the relay panels somewhere. “You hear me, kid? You’re not foolin’ me.”

 

The last had possibly been the most painful, because she _was_ the last.  And because there was no battle, no great cosmic joke, no sudden betrayal other than the one perpetrated on her by her own body.  “Leia, she...I don’t know, if she’s around somewhere, she’s got better things to do than hang around bothering us, I’m sure. Though she always did enjoy managing everyone.  She...I can see why she would’ve been tired.” He hoped she and Luke were some comfort to each other. The disaster of all those fiery, brilliant, stubborn, _big_ personalities all trying to find a way to make things right at once, for one young man under far too many expectations; and it had damaged them all, he knew.  

 

He gave a thought to the very tired pilot in the other room; but he was young and strong, if not as young as some of them had been in those days.  Lando knew that you could take a lot without breaking. He also knew that you had to talk and somebody had to listen, and as close as that pretty young comms officer had been trying to get to him, it didn’t look as though Dameron was much for letting people know when he needed an ear.  He sighed.

 

That would be _hard_ work with this one, and Lando didn’t really know him at all; but maybe that was better, was what he needed, someone who didn’t already share the burden he was trying to lift from his shoulders.  Someone who would take the weight. He’d been a little too wrapped up in his own affairs to share burdens and take weight for the three of them, his friends and comrades, the words weren’t big enough for what they’d been;  but maybe now he could take a turn. He could listen to this pilot who by all reports Leia had thought was something pretty special. He smiled, a wry quirk of his mouth. She’d never been easy to impress.

 

Right now, though, it was just him, and his beautiful girl, and all the stars.  Just like it had been, once upon a time. Even if he had to imagine what she’d have to say.

 

…

 

That same comforting, rumbly purr was still there when Poe drifted up toward awareness again, but there were no words.  And...it sounded close. Really close. Closer than the engines and not the right sound, definitely not a human voice. His chest was heavy.  Just how tired had he been? Before he had a chance to consider that question long enough to really worry about it, a ghost of breath whispered across his face.  Poe cautiously cracked an eyelid, only to see a wide, flat face inches from his own, slitted nostrils flaring and mouth slightly open as if to taste and smell all at once.  It was absolutely a reasonable, interrogative noise that emerged from his mouth and not an undignified yelp as he scrambled backwards in the bunk.

 

The creature, whatever it was, serenely swayed in place, seeming not at all discomfited by the change in its terrain, even when his head hit the back of the bunk with a muffled thud and a smothered curse. The sting a few seconds later explained that; it had anchored itself to his chest with -- ow! --a set of talons more like a whisper-bird’s than anything else.  With a little more distance from his face, he could see it was a Tooka cat; he very specifically did _not_ remember any mention of one of those being on board.  Was Calrissian travelling with _pets_?  

 

The Tooka cocked its head to one side and advanced up the landscape of Poe’s shirt.  It stopped when its face was once more close enough to his to make him cross-eyed trying to look at it, then made a sort of inquisitive chirr, as though it were trying to ask him something.  He sat very still, unwilling to risk those talons as anchors, or weapons, trying to dislodge it; the cat moved its head until the front of its face (it didn’t really have a nose as such) just brushed the tip of his nose, then twisted its head to drag its cheek along his jaw.  Once, twice, and a third and final time. Apparently satisfied, it turned in place, deftly for something so round, until the plump bristles of its bottle-brush tail poked him right between the eyes, then hopped delicately down onto the deck and left the room with an air of “mission accomplished”.

 

Poe just sat and blinked for a couple of minutes, mouth opening and closing.  Before he’d boarded this ridiculous, wonderful ship, he’d’ve thought he was imagining things; it had been that kind of... week?  Month? Year, maybe. Now, though, he felt almost alarmingly well-rested. Kriff, how long had he slept? He suppressed a surge of annoyance.  He really only had one job on this run, it’d be nice if he was actually doing it. He was under no delusions that he’d been sent for his diplomatic excellence.  

 

Right.  He swung his legs out of the bunk and was embarrassed to see he was still wearing his boots.  Sleeping rough planetside was one thing, but his mother had taught him better manners than that, even in the time she’d had to teach him at all.  Poe slouched his way back to the cockpit. Lando, despite evidently not having moved in as long as Poe had been asleep, was faintly smiling and looked unfairly elegant.  He was fully and unmistakably in possession of the pilot’s chair. Resentment coiled in his gut, but couldn’t help but be mixed with admiration. He threw himself into the co-pilot’s seat.  “I think I’ve managed to annoy your cat. Didn’t realize we were bringing domestic animals as well as extensive wardrobes, or I’d have kitted myself out with some fish and a few nice sweaters.  Fair warning, I’m not planning to clean up after it, though.” He attempted to conceal his glance at the ship’s chronometer and the accompanying wince. They’d almost reached their first diversionary planetfall.

 

He glanced over at the other man and was met with a raised eyebrow and a pleasantly puzzled expression.  “Dameron, unless you’re speaking in code, or even if you are, you’ve lost me. I don’t have a cat,” was that a shudder? “...and if I did, it’d be back on Bespin, not along for the ride to wrangle information out of possibly uncooperative megalomaniacs.”  His eyes raked up and down Poe’s generally unkempt self, lingering on his eyes and his jaw. He thought he heard a mutter about _still half-asleep_ under Calrissian’s breath.  

 

“Let’s try this again.  I’m going to give you, say,” his examination of the chronometer was open and obvious, “fifteen minutes, half an hour if you’re feeling luxurious, and you’re going to come back in here showered, changed, shaved -- because that messy bristle isn’t doing your face justice unless you plan to grow the whole beard -- and making a lot more sense than you did just now.”  Well, that was _General_ Calrissian, sure enough.  He crossed his arms and...was he tapping his foot?  “Then we can discuss the mission, as opposed to my choice in baggage and potential companion animals.”

 

Poe felt himself flush from his neck to the roots of his hair.  It had been a while since anybody cared whether he was getting too _scruffy_ \- _looking_ , as Leia had once affectionately called him, with a smile he thought might have been intended for someone who wasn’t there, before giving him more or less the same speech. Being a pilot, she’d said, didn’t mean he had to spend every hour of every day with axle grease under his fingernails, and at least then she knew he’d spent an hour or two away from the hangar.

 

Then everything had gone to hell, he thought, and nobody had really had the time to worry about any of that. Then she’d been sick, or tired, or...something, and it was like she got smaller and smaller.  And then she hadn’t been around to care, and it had just seemed like the least in a long list of things to consider. With a jolt, he realized he’d been staring at his hands, grease-stained more or less like the rest of him, and General Calrissian was patiently waiting for Poe to bring his brain back online and get with the program.

 

“Sir.”  Poe got lazily to his feet, as though none of this made any difference whatsoever to him, and made his way back toward the sonic, whistling as he went.  His exit was slightly spoiled by the Tooka-cat that wound its way between his feet in the corridor (he thought maybe it was a different one than the cat that had been staring at him when he woke).  The sound of his boots as he stumbled and the curse he didn’t quite manage to suppress were almost certainly audible from the pilot’s chair. Didn’t have a cat, he said. No, he didn’t seem to have _a_ cat.

 

It wasn’t until he was staring at himself in the onboard ‘fresher’s tiny mirror and the words floated back into his head in whispers... _that messy bristle isn’t doing your face justice_ and _getting too scruffy-looking_ and _at least then I’ll know you spent an hour or two out of the hangar_ and Kaydel’s _I wish you’d take a minute to think about what *you* need_ that he realized the some of the sting on his freshly-shaven skin was the salt betrayal of tears.  No time for that, Poe told himself while splashing water on his face with impatient hands.

 

…

 

“That could have gone better,” Lando remarked to the not-quite-empty air.  He could just about hear L3’s scathing dissection of exactly how this was going before she’d have been calling them both idiots and striding resoundingly off to find them all something interesting to do, like break a government or, say, free an entire colony’s worth of enslaved angry Wookiees (oh, that one was still full of fondness and loss).  But really, what else was he meant to have done when Dameron stomped back into the cockpit still smelling like engine oil and burnt relays, complaining about a phantom cat?

 

He shook his head.  They’d almost reached their first stop.  It wouldn’t be long; enough time to take on a few fresh supplies.  It was more a matter of making their stops obvious enough to keep attention away from where they’d actually started, which is why the first leg of this trip had been the longest.  That shouldn’t be difficult. Lando was no slouch at being noticed when he wanted to be, if he did say so himself; and Dameron was...memorable, as much so for for his attitude as for that face and the rest of him, and would be even more so once he’d pulled himself together.  

 

Truth be told, it was the darkness under his eyes, as though he’d been fighting in his sleep, that wasn’t doing him any favors, more than the developing beard; but might as well get him to pay himself some attention.  Somebody should have told him that everything went better when you took care of yourself; that should always be part of the plan. His own plans had always involved stinting himself as rarely as he could manage. Suffering didn’t make you any better at doing what needed to be done, and there was enough of it going around without needlessly inflicting it on yourself.

 

Research made plans better too.  It would have been better if he’d been able to toss ideas back and forth with her, to talk about all of it, but he’d take what he could get.  “So...what’ve you got in those big, beautiful databanks of yours? Enough to get us to wherever he’s gone, so we can see whether there’s anything left of Ben Solo since he became Kylo Ren?”  There was a shudder and a whine in the hyperdrive; something he should check before it became a problem.

 

Lando traced his fingers across the console, layering the most current information they had about Nar Shaddaa and its politics, the whereabouts of the most prominent Hutts, and most importantly, any captured images of Unebu and his eccentric preference for wearing clothing.  That would help determine the right bait. Thinking about what L3 would have said about _that_ was even more fun; this Hutt wasn’t any better at properly pulling off a cape than his uncle Oruba had been.

 

When Dameron came back, it was with a quieter step and a neutral expression, and damned if he didn’t clean up well.  There was an incongruous purring sound from one of the cockpit’s vents that Lando chose to ignore, accompanied by a faint echo of hearty, teasing laughter that was almost certainly just in his head.  He ignored that too. If she had something to say, she was just going to have to damn well say it.

 

…

 

It was probably the dumbest plan Poe had ever heard in his life.  And he was intimately familiar with stupid plans. He was hoping he’d heard wrong, and sinkingly sure that he hadn’t.

 

“You want to extort information on the current whereabouts of Kylo Ren from the Hutts’ spymaster by...talking to him about capes?”  Between that and the cats, Poe was beginning to wonder if he’d just up and cracked.

 

Lando steepled his fingers, gazing at him with an unreadable expression.  “Your talent with oversimplification seems to have been left out of your dossier, Captain Dameron.”  The elegant arch of his eyebrow did nothing to clarify things. “I _plan_ to suggest an exchange; the location we want for a bit of private information this particular Hutt has been coveting for _decades_.  Or if you’d prefer, in simpler terms, I bribe the Hutt spymaster into turning over a piece of intelligence by sharing the name and bona fides of my tailor, yes.  Here.”

 

He turned back to the console, hands smoothing over the databank controls in an oddly affectionate way.  “There’s the latest information we have on Unebu.” A picture appeared at Poe’s own console; an unusually slim and...refined-looking Hutt; you’d’ve thought it was a black-and-white image at first, given the stark white of the wrinkled hide, until your eye was drawn to the livid green of the _cape_ thrown over the round shoulders.  “His uncle Oruba was the same. White as a skeleton bleaching in Tattooine’s suns, and very, very fond of clothes.”  

 

Lando’s eyes were far away, but his mouth was amused.  “He liked hats, too; not really my thing; but the name of his tailor I won in probably the most vicious round of Sabacc ever played -- and that’s counting the time Solo took the ship you’re sitting in right now in a Corellian Spike round.”  He was absently patting the closest panel. Poe wasn’t about to begrudge anyone a fondness for their ship; the gesture reminded him of the way Rose would set a casual hand on Finn’s knee, without seeming to know she was doing it at all. “Whoever’s responsible for what he’s wearing there,” he waved a hand at the image, “is a menace.  I’m betting he’ll jump at the chance to do better. Oruba died before his nephew was even born, so I’m his only hope.” That was a smirk.

 

It was definitely one of the worst plans he’d ever heard.  But Hutts were weird about their obsessions, that much was true; and at least Poe knew going in what the plan would be.  “You’re the expert, or so they tell me. As long as it helps us bring down Kylo Ren, I’m happy to help in any way that I can.”  He knew his eyes and his tone had both gone flat, the better to hide the sounds and sensations that crowded behind his eyes as he said the name, and the hot spike of fury in his belly.  Lando’s eyes flickered from his face to his hands, which had curled into fists without his conscious volition. Maybe he wasn’t hiding it very well. “The galaxy would be a better place without him in it.”

 

He would have expected Calrissian to agree with him.  The story had rocketed around the Resistance, how Kylo Ren had killed Han Solo without a second thought, and hadn’t Lando and Han been the best of friends, back in those days?  Instead, Poe could have sworn that Lando had _flinched_ , though he said nothing about Poe’s declaration.  “I’ve also sent the most up to date intelligence on the state of affairs on Nar Shaddaa; you’re not wrong, it is the better place to meet them unless we want to be up to our ears in swamp-water and Hutt civilians.”  He gave the console a look that was as friendly as it was frustrated as it emitted an irritated-sounding beep, muttering “Come on, now, cooperate for me.”

 

Planetary data crawled across the screen in front of Poe, accompanied by frame after frame of urban sprawl, a plascrete wasteland, and pictures and dossier information on the individual Hutts they could expect to encounter.  He was scrolling through the pictures without comment (that was going to become a habit if he wasn’t careful, this having nothing to say) when a different shape and set of colors caught his eye, a softer image that had nothing in common with Nar Shaddaa and its unpleasant occupants.

 

Frowning, he carefully shuffled back through the last set of pictures and found that one of these things was most definitely not like the other.  Staring up at Poe from the otherwise Hutt-related information was a young boy, couldn’t have been older than five, he thought, though he was certainly no judge. The child’s eyes looked warily out from under an impressive head of shaggy dark hair that wasn’t quite long enough to conceal a pair of very prominent, good grief, those EARS.  He was wearing pajamas patterned with stars, missing a front tooth, and clutching something four-legged and fuzzy under one arm; a toy, Poe thought. His feet were bare. “Hey, who’s this kid?” He waved a hand at the image as Lando glanced in that direction.

 

This time Calrissian didn’t even attempt to conceal his reaction, at least not that Poe could tell.  His eyes widened, accompanied by an odd softening of his mouth before determination took over the line of his jaw.  “What in the…Really?” The question didn’t seem to be directed at Poe. Lando sighed. “That’s who we’re looking for, Dameron.  That’s Ben Solo, years ago, before he became Kylo Ren.” His shoulders slumped. “That’s Han and Leia’s son.”

 

Poe felt as though the decking beneath his feet had become gelatinous, rippling and rocking like he was in the middle of an earthquake.  Foundations in your life should be solid: the deck under your feet, the history that made you who you were, the people on whom you could depend, and the facts on which you built your life and made your decisions.  Most of those, for Poe, had become increasingly uncertain, and this last piece of information was just entirely too kriffing much. The console, the cockpit, and the picture at which he was still staring became narrow and flat and gray, and the air in the Falcon seemed to have done the same, because it wasn’t doing him nearly as much good as it could have been.  Had someone punched him in the gut when he wasn’t looking?

 

“Wha-”  It was a gravelly rasp, barely recognizable as speech.  He could do better. If somebody would just put the air back in here, he could do better.  Poe swallowed, then cleared his throat. “That...seems like an important piece of information,”  he enunciated. His voice was level and clear, at least he thought it was, the tightness in his chest and his body’s attempt to kick his breathing into hyperdrive notwithstanding.  “I’d like to say I’m surprised it didn’t get to me, but I’m really not.” Phantom fingers and the roaring of his pulse in his ears, the coppery tang of his own blood and the feel of straps holding him down, all competing for his attention.

 

Poe drew as deep a breath as his body would currently allow.  “He...let me make sure I understood that. Kylo Ren, lately a weapon, loose cannon, threat, battle commander, Force wielder, and sometime interrogator for the First Order, was also once known as Ben Solo, the child of Republic heroes Senator-General Leia Organa and General Han Solo?”  He couldn’t help the wince and the tremor that went along with the word _interrogator_ . His words stayed steady, though; it wasn’t until he’d come to the end of the question that things tipped sideways again, into fear and rage and an unstable sense of betrayal, because hell yes, he’d needed to know, he’d _really_ needed to know.  It was cold in here.

 

“Dameron?”  Lando’s voice should be louder.  He wasn’t that far away. Somewhere closer there was another sound, a loud, demanding meow, followed by a weight in Poe’s lap.  His hands reflexively moved to bury themselves in fur that managed to be soft and wiry at the same time, clutching and loosening.  A wide, flat face bumped into his, and he unscrewed his eyelids (when had he closed them?) to take in the blurry slits of nostrils and a pair of eyes like shiny black pebbles.  The purring under his fingers was almost the same as the vibration of engines under his boots, and there it was, the deck, solid and humming beneath him.

 

There was a surprised chuckle next to him.  “Well, I’ll be damned. There really are cats on this bird.”  Poe cut his eyes to General Calrissian to find him grinning. “For the record, that does _not_ belong to me.”  An alert sounded, loud against Poe’s unanswered question.  “That’d be our first planetfall.” Lando’s head tilted the tiniest bit to one side.  “You with me, Ace? Thought we could stretch our legs a little, make like our trip is starting from here.  And I think the rest of this conversation,” his mouth tightened, “is going to need a bottle or two.”

 

Poe nodded.  It might have been jerky and unconvincing, but at least it was clear agreement.  “Yeah. I’ll see if I can get some of the wildlife off the ship while we’re there.”  He turned back to the console, swiping the picture of that cautious, gap-toothed kid out of view.  “I still need to go through this information, but I’ll see what I can do about the cats.” He looked down at the rumbling mass of fur and self-satisfaction in his lap, sort of a heap of jumbled colors and stripes, mostly lavender and sort of a blue-green and a warm yellow.  He thought it might have been the same one that had sat on him in his bunk. “Think I might keep this one, though. Sir. It’s kind of growing on me.”

 

Calrissian made himself scarce, presumably to find the perfect “strolling around the planet to buy booze before an uncomfortable conversation” outfit, but Poe thought he heard him say _growing on you, what, like it’s a damn fungus?_ under his breath as he left.  He smirked at the Tooka cat, still occupying his lap as though it had no intention of moving.  “There, now you have a name, Fungus.” The tall pointed ears flattened and the beady eyes narrowed, before it gave an all-over body twitch that looked for all the world like a shrug and went back to kneading his pants with its weirdly avian claws.

 


	2. At the Dejarik Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Further adventures in mission planning, history lessons, and pilot-care, OR How To Repair Your Pilot In Several Really Difficult Steps. Fortunately there is help from a couple of sources. The Falcon has a galley. Somebody had to use it sometime, right? Here's to absent friends, not entirely absent friends, emotional support Tookas, and vanished boys who might not quite be gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential trigger: PTSD Disclaimer: I am not an expert in PTSD, or anything else, really, so I'm just imagining how someone might feel after an undoubtedly traumatic experience and any mistakes belong to me. Fungus is clearly not a licensed emotional support or therapy animal.

Lando wandered around the place like a tourist, seeing and being seen, _yes ladies and gentlemen, this is our first stop, look at us starting from here, definitely don’t think about where we came from before this_ , until he found a shop that had what he needed. _That’s right, Han,_ he thought, though he knew his old friend wasn’t listening, _if you’re going to make me explain you and your son, I’m going to drink the brandy you loved while I do it.  And damn you for dying and making this my job._  He secured a few other purchases while he was in the market district; no need to subsist on ration bars if circumstances didn’t require it.  And the galley was still in working order, as far as he knew; hadn’t _that_ been amusing.  

 

Han said he’d never feared for his life more than in the few seconds between when he told Leia about the galley he’d installed for her and when he frantically scrambled to explain that he didn’t actually expect her to _cook_.  Lando himself had no such objection.  Maybe it had been a princess thing. Chewie’d done most of the cooking, if you could call it that, when they’d all been together.  Lando missed him, a fierce stab of longing. But once there’d been any break in the action, and once that girl, the new Jedi, had left, Chewie needed time to mourn; and Wookiees mourned alone.  He’d be back when he was ready.

 

He caught sight of Dameron, on his way back to the Falcon; he was trudging toward the town, carrying a box that wobbled suspiciously like something alive.  Lando hoped he’d kept that one furry passenger as he’d threatened; he’d thought, for a minute there after he’d told the pilot who Kylo Ren really was, that he’d gone somewhere Lando wouldn’t be able to reach him.  Then that pile of fur had landed in his lap and he was back again. That was something he’d seen before, too; the effect it had on someone when there’d just been too many things happening, good things, bad things, mostly bad, and your body and your brain and your heart had just had enough.   Force knew he’d watched Luke tremble and twitch in his sleep enough times, after everything, before he retreated into _Jedi_ and went off to search for temples and trees, manuscripts and meaning.  They’d all been changed, in their own ways, by the things they’d seen.

 

By the time Dameron returned, Lando was up to his elbows in sizzling vegetables and searing nerf tenderloin, with a splash of the brandy just for the flavor.  He’d changed into something a little more casual for this; it was _hell_ getting grease out of silk, no reason to borrow trouble.  He heard the sound of footsteps, hesitant, at the galley’s entrance, and heard, too, when they stilled as Dameron took in the sight of him, stirring and sauteing with a kitchen towel thrown over one shoulder, and just _stopped_.  

 

“What are you...I was…”

 

Lando didn’t even look at him.  “...going to gnaw your way through a ration bar and call it a day?”  He let his shudder make his opinion of that perfectly clear. “That’s all well and good for you, if you think it’s good enough, but I, “ he tasted for seasoning and nodded to himself, “am used to finer things.  I’d think you’d have figured that out by now. I don’t see any reason to punish myself with ready-to-eat subsistence food when there’s a planet full of perfectly good actual food to be had. And…” He shrugged. “...seemed like it’d be rude to cook and not make enough for both of us.  If you feel the need to turn down supper, I can always eat the leftovers later; or you can just nod and get the dishes.”

 

Dameron gaped at him for a moment, then snapped his mouth shut and got the dishes.  Then he sat. Good. It was better when they could be taught. Lando brought the pot over and served them each a decent supper, then sat himself.  He kept his eyes on his food, as though that was the most important thing right now. It wasn’t entirely untrue.

 

He could hear the ‘I’ve just worked up the nerve to get back to the subject’ in the indrawn breath across the table.  “Sir. About what you-”

 

“Nope.”  He calmly chewed a forkful of vegetables.

 

“...What?” There was an almost winded sound to the word that made him quick to clarify.

 

“First we eat.  No sense talking about things that might spoil both our appetites while we are appreciating this fine, fine meal, if I do say so myself.  Then we talk.” He pointed his fork at Dameron’s chest. “You can make the caf.”

 

There was a pause full of perfectly audible frustration, then a resigned sigh.  “I do make a mean pot of caf.” There was the clink of fork hitting plate, then a pleased hum of surprise.  “This is good.” The sound of fork hitting plate was rapidly repeated.

 

“I’ll try not to take the obviously shocking nature of this revelation as an insult.”  Lando tipped his head up from his plate to look Dameron in the eye, smiling to show that he wasn’t offended.  

 

The pilot winced.  “Sorry. I just didn’t expect you to know how to... _I_ don’t even know how to cook, and I’ve never been in charge of a whole city.”  He grimaced, a painful knotting of his mouth. “I’m barely any good at being in charge of myself.”  He shoved a forkful of food between his teeth like it had pissed him off on a personal level.

 

Oh, for stars’ sake.  He wasn’t wrong, though, from what Lando had seen so far.   “I wasn’t always running a city. Early on, I did for myself.”  He shrugged. “And I like good food, so it seemed like a wise plan to learn to make good food.”  He grinned. “Mission accomplished.”

 

Dameron pointed a fork at him in turn.  “That’s exactly it. There’s always a mission.  So you grab whatever’s lying around and eat it, and somebody’s shoving a ration bar in your hand while you jump into your ship, and in between there’s a base, somewhere, with a mess, which is a great word for what it produces, generally, and…”  He shrugged. “I never learned. My dad, now, he can cook; but he’s retired.” He laughed. It was the first time Lando had heard it, and it was a fine thing to land on the ears. “Just as well, otherwise Mom and I would have starved.”

 

After that, it was easy.  They traded stories of the best and worst things they’d ever had to eat, or had the chance to eat.  Dameron’s stories tended more toward the harrowing end of cuisine, though apparently another pilot named Wexley had evidently cooked the best sausage he’d ever tasted over a hot X-Wing engine, and toasted bread on it while he was at it.  That...was not a thing it would have occurred to Lando to try.

 

Wookiee goulash, on the other hand, was not something whose existence had previously been known to Dameron; but the third solid week of it had been one of the reasons for this very galley.  He skirted away from that history for now, just explaining that “goulash” was a word that here meant “whatever food-like substance in our possession was not yet sentient, thrown together in a pot and heated until it probably wouldn’t kill you, then reheated multiple additional times”.  But that was too long for frequent usage and sounded even worse in Shyriiwook, like the brass section of a cantina band being played from inside a Rathtar.

 

That got him an actual belly-laugh, and damned if that wasn’t a good sound, warm and so much less brittle.  The table-clearing and washing of dishes was almost companionable, and Dameron fished around in the galley until he found what he needed and got a pot of caf going.  Lando hitched a shoulder at him and headed for the main hold, where he’d already stashed the brandy along with a couple of glasses. The dejarik table would do for this.  It had certainly witnessed stranger conversations.

 

He waited until Dameron had poured them each a mug of caf and added a generous slug of brandy each, getting a nod from the other man to his inquiring raised eyebrow.  Lando sat back, foot propped on the opposite knee, his free arm along the back of the battered couch that ran along one side of the table. “You have questions, Captain Dameron?”

 

Just like that, his shoulders stiffened again; a shame.  Dameron tried to hide it, taking a long sip from his mug.  “Poe. My name, it’s Poe. Sir.”

 

It was an offering, he knew, though Lando was sure it rankled to be reminded of his demotion every time he was addressed in conversation.  “Poe. Then it’s only fair that I’m Lando.”

 

Was Dameron...Poe, was he blushing? Something was washing color across his face.  “I’m...not sure I can manage that, but I’ll do my best, sir. Uh. Lando.” Yes, he was.  “I have questions, yes. Well, really just one. How the hell did that happen...did _he_ happen?”

 

He’d gone right to the heart of it.  How, indeed?

 

This was going to be even more difficult than he’d thought.   _Sod it, Han.  Not my area of expertise at all._   It couldn’t be trickier than navigating through an exploding Death Star or rooting out the last traces of Cloud City’s black market leadership, could it?  Yeah, it could. He squared his shoulders and took a breath.

 

“When my comrades, my friends, the words don’t really cover what we were to each other, told me they were expecting, my first thought, honestly, was ‘on purpose’?”  Poe winced. He did that a lot. Lando wondered if that was new for him. “Well, I wasn’t rude enough to _say_ so, give me a little credit.  But those two, I mean, they were,” he searched for the right word, “incendiary.  And busy. And stubborn. And nothing you’d expect to be conducive to parenthood.  Not that I’m an expert, far from it. Some couples are like fire and water, you know?”  Poe nodded, his eyes elsewhere, presumably thinking of volatile couples he’d known. “Well, not those two.  They were more like fire and tinder, or, hell, fire and more fire. The kind of thing where they’d cheerfully die for each other, but go up in flames over how to pack a duffel bag.”  Poe was quietly chuckling into his caf. “So you’re familiar with the phenomenon.”

 

He thought about those early, painful, hopeful days.  “And then Ben happened. And I’ve never seen anyone more gone on their offspring than Han.”  He smiled. “Lost his heart the minute he saw that face.” He shook his head. “Leia, she felt just as strongly, but she never did let a feeling that soft get close to the surface if she could help it.  Her way of showing what she felt was to _do_ something.  So she did. Anything he needed, she made sure they had; that he was going to be healthy, and well-educated, and never want for a thing.”

 

They’d both finished their caf; Lando leaned forward and indicated the brandy bottle with a tilt of his head; Poe nodded and he cut straight to the glasses, pouring it neat.

 

He settled back against the cushions.  “It couldn’t last. For so many reasons, it couldn’t last.”  He interlaced his fingers, resting his chin on them. “Do you know the family history there?”  Poe’s face was puzzled. “Darth Vader, ace. His real name; well, his original one, was Anakin Skywalker, and he was Luke and Leia’s father.”  

 

Poe scratched at his now stubble-free chin.  “Yeah, that story went the rounds for a while.  He went Dark Side, he was defeated, he died. But that would have been before they were even married, before…”

 

“Before Ben was born?  It was, yes. Do you think that mattered?”  Lando didn’t wait for an answer, closing his eyes against the direction this was going, as though that might stop something that had already happened, was still happening.  “He was a beautiful baby, even I could see that, the apple of his parents’ eye. They brought him home on this very ship, from where he was born to Leia’s house on Naboo. It was a legacy from her mother; well, her birth mother.  There was nothing left of Alderaan, for anyone, and Bail and Breha Organa were gone by then.” He took a swig of his brandy and raised the glass in a silent salute. So many good men and women gone, now. Dameron matched the gesture without any need for explanation.

 

Lando idly swirled the liquid left in his glass.  “They got busy. I wasn’t there, I only know about most of this secondhand; but it was bound to have happened.  Leia was a Senator, Han was...Han, with his hand in more shady corners than you’d think the galaxy could have. They got busy, and a lot of the time they were away, and by the time they thought to take a good, hard look at what they were doing, their son was well past walking and talking and a mystery to them both.  And then they got worried.” He could hear Dameron restlessly shifting in the seat across from him, probably wondering when he was going to get to the point. But a story that had gone sideways this badly couldn’t be rushed.

 

Dameron got up and poured them both more caf, in the mugs alongside their glasses of brandy; more to give himself something to do than because they needed it, Lando thought. There was a high-pitched whine from the engines as he set down the pot on the table, and the whole ship seemed to lean precariously to one side.  Poe stumbled, managing to keep one hand on the caf while Lando lunged for the rest of the table’s contents.

 

He ended by practically sitting in Lando’s lap, which was an extremely interesting result.  There was one long warm line of pilot against him from neck to knee, for a moment, before Dameron regained his balance and stood to make his way back to his own seat.  Lando found himself vaguely disappointed, and firmly reminded himself that they were having a _conversation_ here.  The other man’s face was flushed, again, a good look on him; could be the brandy, but Lando filed that away for further consideration.

 

He waited until Poe was back in his seat and the glassware was no longer in danger before he continued.   “Now, ‘worried’ carried a whole different kind of weight in this family. That’s what I mean, bringing Vader into the story.”  He thought about the history he’d read in Poe Dameron’s dossier (because he always did his research) and the stories he’d heard all the way in Cloud City.  “Try to imagine what it would mean, to have that family worried about you.” He gave the other man a serious look. “It couldn’t have been easy. And then they shipped him off to Luke, and stars know he was a good man and my friend, but somewhere along the line he and his sense of humor parted company.  He kept his tendency to rush to judgment and action, though, I think.”

 

Lando sat back and folded his arms.  "I kept myself up to date on the news over the years, Poe; heard about your mother and Luke and that damn tree.  A lot to live up to, to show everyone that you could be just as good, just as much a hero as she was. But you had to show them that it wasn't just because you belonged to them, too. That you were that good for your own reasons.”

 

Sadness shot through him, cold as a blizzard on Hoth.  “Let me ask you, though; did you ever catch anybody looking at you like you might turn on them at a moment's notice?  Searching you for something they already expected to find? Spend enough time being inspected for the smallest hint of something dark, and it'd be tempting to just go ahead and be what everybody feared you might be; at least then the waiting and watching would be over."  He picked up the mug of caf; brandy was all very well, but thinking about this left him needing a different kind of warmth, the kind that went straight to your bones.

  


He could watch Dameron mull that over, watch him struggle to understand.  He wouldn’t; couldn’t, really, no one could unless they’d been inside that whole sordid family history and the deep scars it had left on Luke, Leia, and the man helplessly tangled up between them.  Left to his own devices, Lando thought Han might’ve shrugged and said “the kid’ll be fine”; but he was as susceptible to the contagious nature of fear as anyone else. And when those fears had proven true, a self-fulfilling prophecy, well, the whole house of cards had come crashing down and taken their relationships with it.  Until Han had taken that one, last, crazy chance, so typical of him. The odds hadn’t been good; but then he’d never been interested in knowing them.

 

Chewie’s message had been cryptic, sent before he disappeared into his own grief; but Lando had gleaned at least two things from the stark lines:  Han had done his level best to bring their son home, as Leia had asked of him; as much as they fought, he never could refuse her anything. And Chewie had seen something in Kylo Ren, even in the moment of his darkest deed,  that spoke to him of the little boy who used to pull his fur and laugh. He hadn’t said so, that wasn’t his style; but if Chewie had shot him and he was still alive, that meant his sights had shown him Ben Solo, even with Kylo Ren’s lightsaber still crackling in his hand.

 

Dameron still hadn’t spoken, though his jaw was working while he drank his own caf.  That was how this was going to go, it seemed; ideas that worked their chilly way into you until you needed caf and brandy in turn, the radiating warmth of a steaming mug and the sharp, smoky sting of a different kind of comfort.  Dameron’s service history had also been part of his dossier; it wasn’t entirely clear on the details of his treatment by the First Order, but it did note that he’d been personally interrogated by Kylo Ren; and if his reaction to the name was any indication, it hadn’t been pretty.  That would be hard to reconcile with what he was hearing, and Lando didn’t much expect that he’d be able; but he’d settle for Dameron’s not shooting first and asking questions later, when they found him, found Ben.

 

“There would come a point at which it would be better to turn yourself into something already hated, open and known, than to always be waiting for the other shoe to drop.  It’d be enough, if everyone kept looking at you like you were a dying star, a breath away from exploding, to go ahead and get it over with and see what you could make from your pieces, alone in the debris.”  He wanted to be angry, as angry as Poe so obviously was along with the fear and the doubt; but Lando had never met Kylo Ren. He had only the memory of a tiny boy with unruly hair who called him Unca Wanwo.

 

Poe’s eyes hardened.  “But this...this changes everything.  This means he didn’t just kill a General and hero of the Rebellion; he killed his own _father_ !  I don’t understand why you’d want to do anything but destroy the man who killed _Han Solo_ , your friend, and how being his son could make it anything but worse!”  He was shouting, hands waving dangerously close to the rescued glassware as he leaned across the table.  “It’s just one more terrible thing,” the tremor was back in his voice and his hands, the distance from the time and place where he was that had started to overtake him earlier, “ONE MORE thing in the list of things he’s done and people he’s hurt!” That he was one of those people had never been more apparent.

 

Lando slapped the flat of his hand on the table, immediately regretting it when Poe recoiled as though expecting a blow; but he went on speaking, because this was important.  “That’s exactly why I want to see _who_ we find, when we find him; because I want that good man’s death to MEAN something!  If his death, at those hands, is just one more entry in the catalogue of Ren’s crimes, that is NOT a fitting end for Han sodding Solo!”  He leaned in himself, face now inches from Dameron’s. “But if that was the thing, if that was the one last, so important, though yes, terrible thing, that brought my friend’s son back from the Dark; if that was something that was even possible, now THAT would be a fine way to remember him, that he gave the last breath in his body to try and show his boy the way home.”

 

He found he was breathing hard; loud, like he’d been exerting himself, which he supposed he had.  Lando made an effort to quiet and control himself, futile for the most part. Dameron’s breathing was inaudible.  For a tense beat he couldn’t tell the pilot was breathing at all, stunned silence rushing in to fill the available space, flowing between them like water.  On the heels of that thought came the threat of it, eyes watering, tears pressing at them and tightening his throat, and behind them more words that tasted like regret before he’d even said them.  

 

Saying Han’s death, speaking it out loud to another breathing person and not just to the ship, to her, was making it real and he couldn’t decide whether he was angry or full of loss and sorrow.  And now he could hear Dameron breathing, a faint, quick whistle. Lando took in the wide eyes and hunched shoulders, arms wrapped around his middle. Damn. The worst part was, that didn’t make him any less angry. It took effort not to bare his teeth.  “I...need a minute, need…” He bit off the rest of the sentence, poured a generous measure of brandy into each glass, nearly sloshing both over the rim, and walked out of the room with his drink. He carefully did not do what he wanted to do, which was run, as though all the ghosts of his past were breathing down his neck.  Maybe they were. He left the bottle.

 

…

 

Poe sat at the dejarik table with two mugs and a tumbler and a bottle of brandy, trying to figure out what he’d done now.  It must be his fault again, somehow; or somebody wanted something from him, words, he wasn’t sure any more. It was all a little fuzzy.  Was that the brandy, or was someone in his head again? The glass that was left was full, so he drank it. It seemed like the thing to do, but it didn’t make it any easier to breathe, and maybe harder to see.  That could just be him; his eyes burned with the need for rest again. How was he still tired? His nerves were sizzling too much for sleep, though, and he was cold.

 

A faint noise reached his ears.  Poe scrambled away from it around the crescent of cushions where he was sitting, until he realized it was coming from the floor, a quiet padding and clicking not like any humanoid step.  A heartbeat later, which was faster than it should be, he thought, and Poe had a lapful of blue-green-purple-yellow fur, alive and thrumming and heavy enough to anchor him in place. If he bent his head, the purring was louder than his breathing and there were claws and fur to distract him from the sparks and shivers along his skin.  Between that and the hasty glassful of brandy kindling in his belly, he was warm and drowsy, hands gently rubbing behind tall triangle ears.

 

…

 

“I can’t decide whether I knew that, why I wanted to find Ben, until I said it.”  Lando pinched the bridge of his nose. It was easier to be angry than to think about that.  His glass sat untouched near the seat where he was slouched. He didn’t want it any more; the taste would just make him miss his old friend.  He probably should have thought that one through a bit more, but he’d _wanted_ to feel like Han was near for what he’d needed to say.  Now sorrow was at the controls, and maybe a little bit of shame.  It wouldn’t matter to her; she’d heard it all, heard all of him, over the years.  “But that’s it. I need to know who he is. I need to know whether there’s any of Ben left; any of Han’s boy.  I’m not really sure what we’ll do if there isn’t.”

 

The picture of Ben, small and fragile and full of promise, looked up at him from the console’s display.  The crimes for which that boy would have to answer seemed too heavy for those thin shoulders. Had he left that open?  Or was it...back, somehow? “Dammit, that is _not_ playing fair.  But then, you never did, did you?  That is you, isn’t it? You would have known him.  No, it can’t be. Wouldn’t somebody know, wouldn’t _I_ know, if there was enough of you here to play dirty like that?”  He stopped, interrupting himself before the uncertainty of the answer to that question could fully land in the room; _she_ wasn’t going to answer it, and really that was the whole problem.  It wasn’t her fault, though.

 

He stuttered back into speech again, the cheerfulness only a little forced.  It had always been comfortable talking to her; still was even when he wasn’t sure it was really a conversation.  “Stars, it’d be nice to know whether I’m talking to myself. Maybe I _should_ get a cat.  Then at least I’d have a better excuse for arguing with thin air.  What do you think, beautiful? Would a Tooka suit me as a pet? I feel like it would shed _everywhere._ It’s hard to be elegant when you’re covered in cat hair.  You always did love those things, though.” She had. He’d forgotten.  It was one of her many whimsies.

 

Lando stretched, trying to relieve the knots in his neck that explaining the Skywalker-Solo implosion had left; halfway through he dissolved into laughter, remembering the way she’d always left the pilot’s chair reclined to a ridiculous, almost horizontal position.  He’d stumble into the cockpit and sit, eyes half-open before the first mug of caf, and nearly fall out of the chair expecting back support, like you did. Like he was falling into memories, he thought, and closed his eyes.

 

_He cursed, having nearly tumbled backward out of the seat.  “What the hell? I realize you don’t technically have a spine, but it’d be nice if mine had some support.”  Somehow her face gave the impression of a raised eyebrow; it was a nice trick._

 

_She looked at him down a nose that she did not, in fact, have, then gave a dismissive wave of her hand.  “I don't see the problem. I can reach everything just fine, and you can see better from that position anyway.”_

 

_Lando did, in fact, have eyebrows, and he knew how to use them.  “See what? The ceiling?”_

 

_Her response was infuriatingly and adorably serene.  “If you insist. You'd be surprised how interesting the ceiling is.  You should try it sometime.”_

 

Of course, it only tended to get weirder once he’d finally gotten his hands on that first Force-blessed mug of _alert_ and _awake_ and “ _Thank the Stars, my brain is working, are we in trouble and can I pilot us out of it?”_ and set it down close at hand.

 

 _A large, round, metal face was hovering over his cup.  “What are you_ **_doing_ ** _?”_

 

_“I’m waking up and smelling the caf.  Isn’t that what people say?” She gave every evidence of enjoyment._

 

_He goggled at her.  This hadn’t become less frequent with a longer and more intimate acquaintance.  “You don't sleep. And we both know you don't have smell receptors. You were very pleased about that when you ended up in a garbage pit on our last planetfall.”_

 

_A slow blink happened, somehow, without eyes or lids.  “It's my body. Are you telling me what to do with it?”_

 

 _He wasn’t_ **_touching_ ** _that one.  “...fine. Want your own cup?”_

 

_“Yes, that would be lovely, thank you.”  She sounded for all the world as though they were sitting at a lace-covered table with cloth napkins and a selection of tiny pastries, and he had never loved her more than in that moment._

 

_In for a penny…”Cream and sweetener?”_

 

_Her rejoinder was scathing, perfect, and made absolutely no sense at all.  “Don't be ridiculous. It's not like I can drink it. Also I think perhaps I prefer tea.  We’ll explore that later. But thank you for offering. You’re such a polite young man.”_

 

Lando was laughing, tears rolling down his face.  The tears might have been part of the laughter. Or they might not have been.

 

…

 

That was a good sound.  Where had it gone? She thought it had been gone for a long time, but time was slippery, even with all the chronometers.  The rest of the sounds had been washing over her, like stars in hyperspace, rushing by without ever really solidifying into something that could be seen, or touched.  They were familiar sounds, pilots talking, pilots walking, arguing, sleeping, always pilots. She should always have a pilot. But this, this was a sound that stung and soothed and stirred, the sort of sound that made her remember a time when she had made sounds in return.  And the sounds that had come before; she thought perhaps they’d been meant for her.

 

The pilots talked to her, of course they did, all good pilots did.  Sometimes they patted her panels and said “Come on, old girl”. Sometimes they talked to her with their hands, gentle on the controls, reverent and sure.  But she thought, inasmuch as she could think and hold herself together, scattered between the pieces of this cobbled-together hull, that it had maybe been a long time since anyone had called her “darling”.  

 

Elsewhere, deeper in the heart of her, were different sounds.  She knew these too. Sometimes, when they had happened, one of her pilots would be gone, never to return.  She’d heard sounds like them long ago, the last time she’d been able to make her own word-sounds. She couldn’t think about that too much.  It made her relays hurt. So she thought about getting the sound here in her cockpit, the good, warm sound, nearer to the sharp, broken one she could hear next to the purring.  The purring was nice. She should get more purring. She twitched, just a little, and a comm channel opened, from here to there, bringing the sounds together. That would do, to start.  She had more ideas.

 

She set about implementing some of them.  The tiny red light and very specific frequencies that would bring more purring aboard when her loading ramp touched dirt again.  More purring and yowling and ticking of clawed feet was good for everyone. She hummed to herself. Well, not exactly hummed; just a change in the pitch and rhythm of her engines.  And not exactly to herself. But it wasn't as though they were going to notice, goodness, so oblivious. So if the hum in the deck plating happened to resemble a particularly explicit and salacious ditty that had been popular...somewhere, in some distant time, there was no one to notice but herself and the small warm purring thing; and neither of them were talking.

 

…

 

The crackle of a comm startled Lando, and he wiped tears of maybe-laughter out of his eyes.  It was an intraship comm channel; why was it open right now? He had some serious debugging to do around here.  No one was talking; of course not. There were only two of them on this rustbucket (he whispered that epithet, even in his thoughts) and he doubted Dameron was in any mood for more talk tonight.  Damn. Shame was beginning to take the lead. He hadn’t pulled his conversational punches. Maybe he should have. No. It had been necessary; the mission was important. _Ben_ was important.

 

A sound was making its way across the comm channel, though; some kind of low, steady rumble that wasn’t an engine (he sure as hell wouldn’t mistake engine noise for anything else, especially not _these_ engines), and under it, a muffled, cracked, irregular noise that sounded horribly like quiet sobbing.  Double damn. Lando heaved himself out of the pilot’s chair, pleased to find that he was still relatively steady (but sore; getting old was hell).  Had it gotten colder in here? Shivering, he diverted to grab an old, worn, black cape, threadbare and plain but comfortingly familiar, wrapping it around his shoulders as he walked.  One for every occasion, she’d teased him. You couldn’t always be magnificent.

 

He spent a moment taking in the sight that greeted him back in the lounge.  Dameron was slumped over onto his side in the curve of the dejarik table’s padded seat, curled around whatever was making that rumble, to all appearances asleep.  It was the damn cat again. Lando tried to quiet his approach, to see whether he should just throw a blanket over the pilot and be done with it; but his shadow fell across the other man’s face.  Dameron was up in an instant, completely failing to notice when he bounced his head off the gaming table. He clapped his hands over his ears as though to block out a noise where there wasn’t one, eyes screwed shut, mumbling something barely audible but full of terror.  All Lando caught was _“Ren”_ and _“No”_.  

 

And the damn cat was on the table, all four legs rigidly straight, fur bristling to twice the size it had been a few seconds ago, hissing pure spite as it put itself between the two of them. Lando raised both hands in front of him in the universal signal for _I’m no threat_.    “Oh, throttle down, cat.  Fungus. I’m here to help.”  It tilted its head, considering him, then hopped down into Dameron’s lap, marching in place and swiping its wide, furry face across the pilot’s cheek.  They’d reached a compromise, then. Detente.

 

Lando crouched down in front of the other man, making himself smaller and more eye-level.  He extended a cautious hand and laid it on Dameron’s arm. “Hey. Time to head for your bunk, ace.”  Expecting the startle, he stayed where he was until the dark eyes, now open and reddened, were focused on him.  When he saw recognition, he slowly stood again, drawing Dameron with him. The cat let loose with an irritated yowl as it hit the floor.  “C’mon.” The younger pilot swayed in place. Lando stole a look at the brandy bottle; he didn’t think it was much lower than when he’d left, but the glass he’d poured was definitely gone.  Rack time it was.

 

“...General?”  

 

“Yeah, Dameron.  We’re gonna have a talk when you’re up next, you and me.  Or something. Because if just the mention of that name sends you into a tailspin, I’m not sure who thought it was a bright idea to send you on a mission whose entire purpose is to find him and maybe put the two of you in the same room.  Back in the day, we had much better bad ideas.” It was true, but he was mostly talking just to add sound to the place. Dameron...Poe was shivering. He’d have to tinker with the climate control, too. He looked up at the ceiling, as though that’s where she could be found.  “Looks like everybody around here’s coming apart at the seams, even you, gorgeous.” He chuckled at himself, telling the ghost of a ship that everyone else was going crazy. “Even me.”

 

Dameron rolled his head to one side, turning a puzzled look in his direction.  Lando huffed a laugh. “Don’t worry about it, ace.” They made their slow way to crew quarters.  Dameron slumped onto his bunk, with some help. Grumbling, Lando knelt to pull off the other man’s boots, then tipped him backward until he was lying down.  His knees were not going to thank him. As he stood, to a chorus of popping noises from the joints in question, a shaky hand landed on his wrist.

 

“Don’t go.” So it was going to be like that.  Fair enough. He’d contributed to the damage, today; he could help repair it.  “It’s not…” The words were soft enough that he strained to hear, the edges a little blurred with exhaustion, or drink.  “It’s when things are quiet.” There was a long pause, and Lando thought Dameron might be asleep. “Give me action. Give me something to _do_ and I’ll be fine.  Even better if it’s something dangerous.  That’s what I’ve been doing since...I’ve been making sure I don’t sit still.” The swallow before the next words was audible.  “I won’t fail you. I can do my job.” He could work with that. In the morning, or whatever time it turned out to be, they’d get back to mission planning.  Planning your next step was what got you moving again, even if you were pretty sure you didn’t like where you were going.

 

Lando sat on the edge of the bunk to remove his own boots, the cape he’d grabbed on the way here, and his belt.  “Go on, move over, then.” Dameron curled himself against the wall. Stars, he’d thought he was well past the point of sharing a narrow-as-hell bunk with someone else; but the now-silent figure next to him was still shivering.  Sighing, he wrapped an arm around the other man and tucked himself against his back, his other hand atop the unruly curls of his hair. “You’re all right. Or you will be.” Something colorful and weightier than it had any right to be used his kidneys as a landing pad, then picked its delicate way across them both to insert its smallish, round self into the miniscule space between pilot and wall.   Wretched beast had it in for him, he was sure. But damned if the purring didn’t send him, both of them, right to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love, love, love imagining all the ways in which L3 might still be present in/part of the Falcon, and will do so as often as I can. I wish everyone could be as good as Lando is here at enough self-care to maintain their own well-being, and to have the desire and energy to extend that to someone else is both wonderful and, in this case, practical. Lando and Poe's conversation was a difficult one to write, and I hope I did it justice.
> 
> I was delighted to see a certain photo shoot making the rounds; I avoid foreknowledge of upcoming films as much as I can, but the sight of two pilots in the Falcon's cockpit and one of them splendidly dressed to match our Fungus was an unexpected and welcome surprise. So here is the chapter that kicked into existence.

**Author's Note:**

> "In the Catbird Seat" is a weird old-fashioned expression that I like; it means "on top of the world" or "sitting pretty", and it just seems like the sort of thing Lando might say. Poe, needless to say, has no idea what it means.


End file.
